


Another Kind of Memory

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: Don't Call Me Brave [10]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mentions of Death, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6823858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire isn't sentimental, so he says. He'll insist the little things don't mean anything to him. Not ticket stubs or train tickets, not books or notes, and especially not dates.<br/>Despite this everything is marked, tacked up, in its place. The notice board is full of little oddities, tickets are used as bookmarks - sticking out of the books lined up with no order across his book shelf. There's a leaf tucked into his water colours, pictures and drawings tacked up across his cupboards. His cockade is pinned to the noticeboard 'for ease of access'.  Grantaire himself is marked, and he can tell you exactly what each line means, methodically laid down onto skin in pinks and creams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Kind of Memory

Grantaire isn't sentimental, so he says. He'll insist the little things don't mean anything to him. Not ticket stubs or train tickets, not books or notes, and especially not dates.  
Despite this everything is marked, tacked up, in its place. The notice board is full of little oddities, tickets are used as bookmarks - sticking out of the books lined up with no order across his book shelf. There's a leaf tucked into his water colours, pictures and drawings tacked up across his cupboards. His cockade is pinned to the noticeboard 'for ease of access'. Grantaire himself is marked, and he can tell you exactly what each line means, methodically laid down onto skin in pinks and creams.  
His coffee table, from a distance, appears as a series of scrawls, etchings and scratches upon a once varnish surface. Upon closer inspection the cuts merge to form words and numbers. Some of them are friend’s names, in various handwritings, some are doodles. Jehan is first to find the lists of dates.  
There are several.  
The most obvious stand like a measure on the back of one of the legs, the most secretive on the underside of the table – and Jehan only found that due to his love of working on the floor.  
The first list is family dates. Deaths, births, events. It ends abruptly 5 years previously.  
The list under the table starts up 2 years after, in the October of the year.  
It was the first time he'd been to a meeting in the Musain. He'd met Combeferre that week, well spoken to him properly for the first time. The library had, at that point, been rather more of a refuge than he'd like to admit. At that point he'd been homeless, more or less, and the library was his favourite non-bar haunt. Looking back, he shouldn't have been writing in the library books that he was reading purely to pass the time between lectures as the days got colder. But it brought him face to face with the bespectacled Combeferre, and then – seeing as he didn't really have anything better to do Friday than sit around a bus stop – up close to a god, for want of a better word. The attraction was instant, the physical sort because who wouldn't be attracted to a man who could only be described as Apollo. If he'd had the table at the time the date wouldn't have been carved, not yet.  
The second date is shortly after New Year. It had been snowing heavily all week, the roads were icy and trees bowed low under the weight. Grantaire had arrived to find Enjolras stood outside the cafe, regarding him with a look of surprise.  
"Bossuet's come down with the flu, so Joly's put their house under quarantine. Combeferre has exams coming up and Courfeyrac refuses to come out in the snow."  
"Well, you're obviously dedicated."  
"As are you, it would appear..." Or just bored of the shelter. He doesn't admit that, because people look at you differently when you tell them things like that. He doesn't want Enjolras to pity him.  
"Can I buy you a coffee or something, seeing as you're here?" He's starting a new job soon, at a printing press, so he can spare a few coins.  
His stomach twists a little as Enjolras nods, shortly.  
They talk about nothing, argue about everything in their booth. They get nowhere, and things don't change.  
The date still isn't carved.  
The first date carved on the table is in the corner, the date he moved in to the run down place that he could barely even afford the rent for. It takes a lot of contemplation before he adds his timeline to the leg, but things don’t deserve to be forgotten, not when they helped make him who he is now.  
It's March when the under table dates are carved. A third date is added to the list. His head is pounding, blurring his reflection in black coffee. A slice of pizza, hour’s cold, sits next to him with two aspirin. He hasn't touched them yet, hasn't moved his hands from the cup even though they're burning. He just keeps staring into blue eyes reflecting back. His lips move, no sound comes out. He tries again.  
"Fuck." A sigh, then louder. "Fuck! I can't- No- Can't, can't- God... This- No." He lets out a string of expletives against his hands. "I... I love him?" He doesn’t know when it happened, slipping slowly under until he was drowning. But now, now it hits him, with a sudden realisation that he knew all along.  
The dates are carved, trying desperately to pinpoint each one. Wood is more permanent than paper, less liable to be lost. They're a reminder, if he ever needs one.  
The shavings fall around him with each date, each fit of melancholy that brings him down to the table, each little reminder that today was that birthday or remember when... The timeline becomes jagged.  
Wood is better to carve than skin. He tells himself again. It's healthier.  
There's a date on the side that's crossed out, roughly and deeply. The date's not in his hand, it's more jagged and inexperienced. He can remember sitting on the back of the sofa, watching the pen knife held between slim fingers, watching dust gather in the little ruts it left. It's possessive, carved into the corner with a knife that's not his, another reminder to him but not from himself.  
"Come up here." He murmurs, quietly, pulling the blanket further around his shoulders in some kind comfort, though from what he's not sure.  
Montparnasse turns, his hair is black and falls over his shoulder just so, a smile curves his lips but doesn’t reach eyes that, Grantaire thinks, on anyone else would look like chocolate but on him are flat and darker than night. He flicks the knife down with a small click and his moves are cat like as he stretches up to place his hands on the sofa, teeth running over his bottom lip, baring his neck as he tilted his head back. Grantaire places a kiss there before his lips. Because kisses aren't their thing. Their thing is finding each other in a bar, again and again, drinking and grinding and shared cigarettes. Their thing is collapsing into bed in a tangle of limbs and leaving before the other wakes up but still Grantaire will turn up at the garage, still Montparnasse will wait on the corner, still they go to the same bar every night they need something because they know the other will be there.  
Montparnasse smells like iron and oil, he tastes like cigarettes and the hint of warmth Grantaire stopped tasting in whiskey. It’s familiar, a comfort.  
It's unhealthy, of course it is. It's unhealthy in the way Montparnasse lays claim to him, in the way Grantaire enjoys the possessive nature of the other. It's unhealthy in its casual need. It's unhealthy because they both know why they're there, why breathy groans never speak of names, never dare form words for fear of what will lie there. They both know that the other is there because they miss someone, because Grantaire needs a way to escape a truth that haunts him, because Montparnasse still doesn’t quite know why he can't just get over her.  
It ends as abruptly as it starts, Grantaire goes to the bar after the Friday meeting because Montparnasse will be there, he's always there with a whiskey in hand, chatting to the barman. And he is, on that one leather bar stool everyone knows to leave. And he's chatting, but not to the bar man. There's a girl, and Grantaire knows her well enough to know exactly what that means.  
It doesn't ever end properly, it drifts, though he can't really say apart because it was never supposed to be like that. He doesn't expect 'I was busy' or even an 'I'm sorry' but that doesn't stop him going from the bar he'd found Montparnasse in to another he won't find, stumbling home blind drunk and hacking a line across the date he knows was by his hand.  
He'll regret it later. When he's sober and Montparnasse comes over and actually listens to him and he realises that's what he'd needed all along, someone who understood and would let him talk. He knows that should be what his friends are for, but they're all too close to Enjolras for him to feel comfortable doing that even if they would be willing.  
He knows where each of his friends are, only one missing out of their group now. Bahorel was the first to carve his name, a lost bet, cutting deeper than everyone else with a wide grin before passing the knife across to Feuilly who carves with more finesse, hand used to performing delicate tasks. Grantaire found he liked the marks of friends, so others add to them when they, or he, asks. Courfeyrac carves his before they head out to watch a film, Grantaire telling him to make himself comfortable.  
"Are we close enough for me to carve my name, on your table?"  
"Huh?" Grantaire pokes his head around the bathroom door, trying to straighten out the sleeves of his shirt.  
"I just noticed you have Bahorel and Feuilly's names. May I add mine?"  
"Knife's in the second desk draw, go wild."  
Combeferre had been least skilled at the carving, Courfeyrac giggling as he slipped and made the line of his M twice as long as it needed to be. Joly and Bossuet come shortly after, near enough to each other to make things obvious, but just a little too far away to make it look like they're not trying to not look together. Joly frets, Grantaire jokes about trusting Bossuet with a sharp blade but he carves it better than either seem to expect, commenting on how he once did wood carving when he was younger. Joly takes a spot a little to the right, nearer to Combeferre than Bossuet, his carving is almost as bad as his handwriting. Grantaire claps them on the back and congratulates them, though never says what for, then offers out a beer each.  
The next date under the table marks the first time he's called useless, worthless, the first time he leaves a meeting amid hissed remarks and bitter words spat out across the table. He remembers it well. He hadn't had a drink since he arrived, focussing instead on the argument Enjolras put forward, adding more comments than usual to the subject. He makes a particularly sarcastic comment on the idea of a petition.  
"At least we're trying to do something, it's more than I can say for you."  
"I'm sorry dear Apollo, I just see no point in trying to talk politicians around when they prove time and time again they have little care for us, for what the public thinks."  
"Well they have to listen sometime."  
"Says who? You?"  
"If you have nothing constructive to contribute then maybe you should leave for one of your haunts. It's not like you do anything more than drink here anyway."  
"I'm sorry you think that I am not being constructive in criticising you."  
"No I think you just like to be irritating."  
"Is that so?"  
"When have you ever had anything good to say?"  
“When have you ever listened?” Grantaire snaps.  
"I keep waiting until I can bear to. Impress me."  
"I owe nothing to you, I'm not going to dance to amuse you."  
“Oh please,” Enjolras folds his arms. “If you wish to waste more of our time dance all you like.” Grantaire’s heart sinks.  
"I mean nothing then? If my opinion doesn’t matter."  
"You, and your opinions are useless to me." He'd recoiled then, knocking the still half full glass before him.  
"Really."  
"Here you're worthless, maybe you should-"  
"What? Re-evaluate my views, jump through hoops to please you the mighty Apollo, perfect of course. Without fault. I should aspire to you?"  
"I wasn't going to-"  
"No I know what you're going to say."  
"Go on." Enjolras' lip curled.  
"No. My opinion doesn't matter here, apparently. So there's no need to voice it anymore, surely. You're not perfect, you don't control me." He hits a nerve.  
"No. But I control the group, and I'm telling you to leave. Now."  
"Very well oh great leader." He'd pushed himself back, swept low in a mock bow "As you wish, I shall go to a haunt and ponder my views a while. And return wise like you."  
He goes home. There's flavoured vodka, he thinks it should be vanilla, it probably came from Éponine but it burns well enough down his throat even as he gags at the too sweet, too artificial taste. The date is scrawled rather than carefully carved like the others, cutting deep into the wood as he replays the words. Cutting deeper as he grits his teeth and scrunches his eyes around worthless, trying to block the image of Enjolras, trying to block how much it hurt. Trying to block the fact that that had been the first time he'd acknowledged him properly since coffee, and how some part of him was actually pleased that he'd even been noticed at all.  
He hates himself for it.  
He avoids the meetings for a time, until Courf tells him to come back, that Enjolras is sorry. He never says it. But Courfeyrac likes to keep the peace, hates it when people fight, so he brokers a contract without the pair even talking.

"Could you do me a favour?" Enjolras asks, and Grantaire glances up, surprise turns to sarcasm.  
"Anything, if you trust me enough."  
"Of course I do."  
"I'm amazed Apollo. What do you wish?" Enjolras curls his lip at the nickname, but doesn't comment.  
"I need someone to design us some leaflets." It makes him uncomfortable to ask, lips pressing together, Grantaire can see, but a small flame lights up in his ribcage.  
"Ask Feuilly then, seeing as it pains you to ask for my help."  
"He works too hard, besides you are a good artist so I hear."  
"Well it may surprise you, but I didn't just bluff my way to the top of the class in art." He grins, Enjolras' face doesn't shift, looking unamused.  
"Be serious."  
"I am wild." He pulls his lip back between his teeth "What will you have me do?" Enjolras pulls up the seat opposite and lays out some basic plans, explaining them a he goes. It's a simple enough concept, but lacks the eye catching appeal that makes leaflets. Grantaire sketches out a few basic designs as Enjolras talks, shifting them as he learns more and morphing his ideas before relaying them back. Enjolras' face lights up as he talks, not in the way of fire as it does when he's giving a speech but in a glow within the more intimate surround of planning. Grantaire sketches another figure as he watches him gesture and catch his breath again.  
"Those are really great..." Enjolras murmurs, and there's something soft in his features as he watches Grantaire's hands move over the drawing and obscure it.  
"Nah, it's not that great. It's only a sketch."  
"It's wonderful." The compliment stings, though he can’t place why. He just needs to get out of there suddenly.  
"You're just saying that because you want my help. It's late, I have class in the morning. I'd better head off." He gathers up the papers.  
"Grantaire..." He shrugs, Enjolras' eyes say something foreign and he turns away from it instinctively, unable to hold a gaze than held something more akin to sympathy than irate fire.  
"I'll finish this off, you've talked enough for me to figure it out at least. Might not be the high standards you’re used to, after all I am, as you say, not invested in the cause."  
"To be fair, you're really not. I don't know why you hang around." He tilts his head to one side as he stands, Enjolras is leaning back on his chair. His eyes are probably more curious than accusing.  
"Because there are more things to be invested in here than ideas." His voice is quiet, and he's pretty sure Enjolras doesn't hear. He clears his throat. "Right, I'm heading off."  
The date is carved a week later, when Grantaire is calmer and has finished the designs, the lines and shadows soothing him a little. He drops the leaflets on Enjolras's table at the next meeting with a lopsided smile and revels just a little in the surprise that crosses Enjolras's face.  
He gives up recording every time Enjolras spits words at him, words that sting and burn his skin as if they're peeling him apart but that he knows are true nonetheless.  
He knew that he and Jehan were going to hit it off the moment the poet came to sit next to him in the cafe.  
The first time Jehan and him talk, talk properly, with poetry and small touches and talking about everything while saying little, Grantaire asks him to carve the date. Jehan's fingers are slim around the knife and he murmurs something about romanticism as he finds a spot amongst the scratches and names of other friends, pausing only briefly on Courfeyrac's slanting script, before he carves in surprisingly curling strokes. The date sits just below Feuilly's signature. His name follows soon after, sitting below Courfeyrac's after he freed his hand from his boyfriends on an evening of films and drinks when Courf asks if he's carved on the table yet. They don't mention that he has, only mere weeks ago. Besides, Grantaire likes the new script, like vines on the wood. He traces over the lines of his friends and memorises them.  
There's a date on the side of the table, barely visible now. He's sure everyone knows it by heart, but no one cares to mention it. It marks a beginning, a failed beginning. A short time of shaking and illness and begging 'please' that ended so abruptly he almost got whiplash. He scratched it out 2 minutes before he carved the next date under the table, and date he's not sure if he wants to remember.  
There are lips on his and they burn and there's electricity in touches and his head pounds, even after the freezing cold shower he hoped would wash everything away. His hands slip as they carve, and he covers his face with his hands and cries.  
The knock at the door makes him jump, and his forehead hits the date above him.  
"Ow! Jesus..."  
Enjolras stands in the doorway.  
There's another date to be carved, a date and lines that cross red over where they've been before. He can't stop crying, he wants to be sick, he wants to be feeling nothing of this because to anyone else Enjolras wouldn't be worth it and yet somehow he still is. Somehow now he's heard what he wanted to hear he feels more adrift than ever before. Red smears over the wood and he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.  
"Stop it. Stop it..."  
It’s getting dark when he pulls himself up, pulls his sleeves down, and decides in an instant what to do. He drinks once, twice, three times at the bar, but still he doesn’t show up. Four. He breaks a rule and leaves, ends up outside a front door he’s only visited in a pair. He knocks once, twice, three times, and then he does appear. Dark hair, black eyes, white teeth parting in a slow smile. Grantaire’s hand touches his chest on four.  
“Hi…” He breathes.  
He doesn’t go to the meetings after that. He sits at home, draws, reads. Montparnasse comes over, and kisses his cheek, and talks, and talks and listens. Montparnasse kisses him, flicks out his knife, scratches the date next to the previous and leaves. Grantaire draws in one last breath of engine oil and ST Dupont cigarettes before letting it out of his lungs in a shaky goodbye.  
“We miss you.” Bahorel tells him, sitting on the sofa. Feuilly’s still at work, and the cynical part of him that he shoves down and tells to shut up, tells him that Bahorel wouldn’t be here otherwise. But Bahorel’s looking at him in concern. “I know he’s an arsehole but the rest of us love you. And it’s not good, isolating yourself like this. Come on, we can just sit in the bar if you want.”  
He relents, with every intent to just sit with Bahorel and Feuilly at the bar and chat, but when he gets there he realises his feet are leading him toward the back room. So he makes the most of it, proves that he’s normal now, he’s fine. Normal means Enjolras hates him, that he snaps, and he prefers this, prefers it entirely to the Enjolras of a few weeks ago.  
“I think we both know why you’re here.” Enjolras snaps at him, and Grantaire actually has to pause, staring down the blonde man who looks more distressed than angry now. He’s given up carving insults, but he decides this time he’ll make an exception. The next meeting he makes an exception and turns up early, and it only serves to wind up Enjolras more. They get back to their pattern, it’s a painful comfort that only seems to be getting more frequent, more bitter each time.  
“We need a party.” Courfeyrac decides one afternoon, when he and Jehan are sitting with Grantaire in the park. It comes out of nowhere, or maybe it’s just built up without him realising. “We need some time out to relax, without the politics. Just friends…”  
So Friday finds him sitting on Bahorel and Feuilly’s sofa, a bowl of crisps balanced between him and Feuilly as they play truth or… Well truth. It’s lazy and relaxed, and nearly everyone is draped over at least one other person except Enjolras, who has his legs pulled up as he leans on the arm of the other sofa. Grantaire briefly wonders if that’s his fault, but he pushes it away.  
It’s a pattern, anything can be the starting point, and it’s completely stupid but Enjolras’s words sting. And the pattern continues, until someone interrupts, and this time Jehan snaps, pulls them both out and sits them down and threatens them until they agree to talk. He hadn’t expected tonight to be noteworthy, but somehow they talk. They talk properly, without the snide-ness that comes with putting on a front. He lets his guard slip, just enough, and tells him why everything always goes wrong. And in return Enjolras tells him why it won’t, why they’ll work and he looks so sincere that he finds himself saying yes.  
There’s a new date, a date that might cancel out the others, but he doesn’t cross them out because they’re his story, a reminder.  
They work through things slowly, a coffee here, a walk there, eventually dinner.  
“I’ve been meaning to ask, are we actually… Official?” Enjolras takes a bite of his meal, not looking up. Grantaire studies him with a small smile.  
“No, I don’t believe we are. Why, you asking?”  
“I guess I might be…”  
“Well then I guess the answer is of course.” Grantaire’s smile grows, and Enjolras looks so happy as he leans across to kiss him he feels his heart might burst. It’s a new list, a new chapter marked down the leg of the table, and Enjolras doesn’t notice but eventually he plucks up the courage to ask, feels secure enough.  
“Why don’t you carve your name?” Grantaire suggests.  
“I don’t know if I can…”  
“It’s not hard, everyone else managed.” He smiles, because Enjolras looks so nervous he’s gone faintly pink. He hops off the sofa, and digs around for his pen knife, holding it out to his boyfriend. Boyfriend… That’s not a word he’s used to yet. Enjolras holds it like it might burn him.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yes, I’m sure we’re close enough for you to put your name. Go on, it doesn’t matter if it’s messy.”  
It is, of course, a scratchy carving that needs some sanding to stop him getting splinters, but it’s there. It’s a new reminder, a better reminder.  
It’s hard work, pulling yourself out of a well, but he works on it. He works for himself, because he can’t rely on anyone. It doesn’t stop them trying, and he wouldn’t say he was ungrateful. The next time he feels like he might fall, when he finds himself on the edge of a precipice, he tells Enjolras over dinner, and they spend the weekend curled up watching films.  
“I’m at the edge of a cliff.” He’d murmured quietly, leaning on one hand.  
“Hmm?” Enjolras had glanced up.  
“I’m… I’m going to fall again. And you won’t be able to stop me but… I want you to catch me.”  
Jehan recommends someone to talk to, and for once he actually does.  
There is a new date, tucked away, that he doesn’t tell anyone about. He’s been getting stronger, better and he doesn’t notice at first. Not until he looks down and realises his wrist has healed completely and he hadn’t even thought about it. So he tracks back, sitting cross legged on the floor and staring at the white lines. Only when he’s certain does he carve a date, from a month ago.  
The days mount up, and it amazes him how quickly days can pass when you’re actually happy. Small things are carved here and there, marking special events, and though he still gets his urges he finds new strategies.  
After a year he feels ready enough, to try giving up drinking again. He carves the date carefully, methodically, and blows away the dust before he looks around to Enjolras. His boyfriend smiles at him, squeezing his shoulder.  
“I know you can do it.”  
It takes several attempts, phasing in and out, nights at Joly’s, nights with his head against the tiles, nights on the sofa, but he makes it, this time he gets through it and Enjolras presses kisses to his damp forehead as they lie in bed. But it’s a date, and it’s solid, and it means something.  
“You’re doing so well.” Enjolras tells him quietly, and Grantaire doesn’t protest the compliment.  
It’s inevitable, of course, that they fight. Minor things that flare up, sarcasm and jibes. Mostly they’re passed over, they climb into bed, murmur sorrys against skin. Every now and then they storm out, end up at friends’ houses and spend days apart, but they come back looking bashful.  
There is one, one that ends up with a stab mark through his secret date. He can’t remember what it was about now, something stupid no doubt, but he ends up back at his place, sinking to his knees on the floor. His mouth tastes bitter and salty. He wants a drink, he realises, something strong to wash away the tang. He doesn’t have anything, and something akin to determination stops him going out to find some. It’s not the good kind, he needs something, anything. He finds his pen knife, and the resentment flows out in red. He lets out a noise of frustration, and it comes out in tears. The knife ends up imbedded deep in the grain of the wood, straight through the centre of his failed milestone.  
He returns to Enjolras’s the next morning, shuffling his feet, sleeves pulled low over new bandages. Enjolras holds out his arms, and tells him sorry, over and over. It’s only later, when he’s doing the washing up and he forgets for a while that Enjolras comes and wraps his arms around him.  
“You hurt yourself…”  
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs quietly. “It wasn’t you.”  
“We fought.”  
“And I got frustrated. It wasn’t the fight, I just…” He can’t find the words, and he turns to look at Enjolras, who’s watching him with such pained eyes that he feels the pain in his chest as sharp as any knife. “Don’t blame yourself.” He tells him, touching his cheek gently. “This is just me, me and my fuck ups. So, I need you to know this wasn’t you.”  
“I’ll try.” Enjolras tells him.  
“And I will too.” He looks back to his arm. “I’m… I’m back to day zero.” He murmurs.  
“Then let’s make it day zero for something else.” Enjolras takes his hand in his own, running his thumb along the veining along the back.  
“What on earth could you zero?” Grantaire smiles a little.  
“Something I’ve been thinking a while. I want you to move in with me.”  
“Move… Here?” Grantaire asks carefully, heart beating hard beneath his ribs.  
“If you wanted, or somewhere fresh. We spend so much time here, the only step is to make it official.” Grantaire pauses, breathes, and breaks into a smile.  
“That sounds perfect.” Enjolras actually looks surprised.  
“Really?”  
“Of course you idiot, any other couple probably would’ve gotten their act together ages ago.”  
It’s a small place, the one they find, but it’s theirs. Their furniture, their decorating, their bed, their fridge… But it’s still his coffee table, even Enjolras admits that. And there’s a new date in the corner, one of a pair that mark the asking, and the moving into their home. And Enjolras sits and watches as he carves a delicate date, surrounded by boxes, to the opposite corner of that first date that started it all.  
There will be more to follow, new milestones, new achievements, new reasons to remember. But for now he places down his pen knife, and sits up on his knees to kiss his boyfriend.  
“Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title - Scars are just another kind of Memory, M.L. Stedman
> 
> This has been in the making since... I started Don't Call Me Brave actually but I got wedged but recently something happened to kick start it again, so you finally get to read it :D


End file.
